WindSeeker (38 page)

"You will leave by noon today! I don’t give a damn what you have to do!"

Conar glared at his father. "No, I don’t suppose you do!"

"Watch your tone, boy! I let Hern talk me out of sending you to Ivor because he thought you needed to

be among family, but I will not suffer your arrogant mouth. Instead of Ivor Keep, it will be Boreas

Dungeon where you’ll be spending your free time if you can’t curb your backtalk!"

"Ask me if I give a damn!" Conar was furious beyond belief. The last thing he wanted to do was leave

for Ciona in the middle of a spring rainstorm.

"Get out of this keep!" Gerren bellowed. "If I have to look at you one more minute, I am going to

physically wipe that smile of condescension off your face!"

"I’ll go when I’m good and damn ready to leave and not a minute before!" Conar exploded. He pitched

the chair in which he had been sitting across the room. The fragile antique piece hit the wall and broke

apart.

"
You insufferable ass
!" Gerren screamed at the top of his lungs. He took a step toward his son only to

have Hern appear as if out of thin air and position himself in front of his King. Gerren tried to shove the

burly Master-at-Arms out of his way, but the bigger, thicker man refused to budge. "
Move, Arbra
!"

"I came to tell you that Legion and du Mer have been sighted. You’ll want to handle their report

personally, won’t you, Highness?" Hern stared at his King—and friend—a strange look of warning in his

dark eyes.

The King faltered. "They’re here, now?"

Hern cast a glance in Conar’s direction where the prince stood glowering. "They’ll want to report to you

right off, I would think."

Gerren looked at his son, at the hateful sneer on the full lips, the sullen pout.

"They’ll be tired from such a long trip, Highness," Hern said, his hands tight on Gerren’s forearms.

"All right!" the King snapped. With one more look of anger at his firstborn, he headed for his council

chambers.

Hern folded his arms over his massive chest. "Learn to curb that vile temper, brat. If you don’t, you’re

going to find yourself on the receiving end of a lesson you won’t soon forget."

"A painful lesson, no doubt!"

"Boy, I’ll give it to you anyway you want it." He stared Conar down, then cocked his head toward the

door. "Better get going before nightfall. Ciona’s a good way off."

Conar nodded, unable to speak. Torment filled his expression. "Would you really hurt me?"

"No."

Conar smiled, his first real smile in over four and a half months. He walked into the older man’s arms

and embraced him, not at all surprised when the burly Master-at-Arms returned the hug.

"May the wind be at your back, lad," Hern whispered.

"And the sun on your face," Conar answered the age-old blessing.

Hern’s lips twitched. "Not today, brat."

Conar heard the distant roll of thunder. "Aye, not today."

* * *

and Storm Jale to come through the outer bailey to join them. They were drenched and cold, sore from a

long, boring ride, hungry, thirsty, and more than a little put out with the prisoner they had in tow. There

was a mulish look of resentment on Teal’s gypsy-dark face, and the grim look on Legion’s made the

stableboys approach the two men with caution.

Rain blew in gusts as they swung down from their saddles, handing the reins to the stableboys. Legion

kept the other rein he had held for most of the journey. His fingers were numb with cold and his graying

hair was plastered tightly to his head, rain dripping through his beard. He sent a baleful look at his

prisoner, then growled when the man met his stare with contempt.

The four men had been away for over two months to the keep at Zephyrus where Prince Dyllon

McGregor, the youngest of the McGregor brothers, was having more than his usual trouble with the

moody King of neighboring Necroman, a large jungle country to the southwest of Serenia. The raiding

which had been only a minor nuisance at the time of Conar’s wedding three years earlier, had since

blown into a full-fledged border war. King Shalu Taborn, the Necromanian King, had trespassed one

time too many into the lush hills of Zephyrus’ lands. King Gerren had sent Legion A’Lex,

Vice-Commander of the Serenian Forces, to deal with the problem since he could no longer trust Conar

to handle anything of importance. Legion, in turn, had taken along Thom Loure, Captain of the Elite, and

Storm Jale, second in command, because the two warriors had wanted to get away from Conar, leaving

Marsh Edan in charge of the prince’s prestigious fighting unit. At the last minute, du Mer had begged to

go when Conar had thrown a caltrop at his head.

"The idjut tried to kill me!" Teal had complained to Hern.

"Then you shouldn’t have annoyed him!" the old warrior snorted. "Get you gone, gypsy, before I take a

caltrop to you, myself!"

Now the four warriors, each as put out as the other, were back with a sullen, silent Necromanian King in

tow.

Taborn had not been an easy prisoner to take. All four men had lumps and bruises to prove it. King

Gerren had wondered if it had been wise to send his son’s Elite to handle a delicate situation. Their

presence had only served to further infuriate the Necromanian King, who thought a diplomat should have

been sent before members of the Prince Regent’s personal bodyguard, putting it on a more personal

level. King Shalu had taken such action a direct insult to his position.

Because there was a treaty between the two countries, the Serenian Tribunal had declared sanctions

against King Shalu for crossing the border to raid on Serenian soil. They chose to overlook the fact that

Dyllon McGregor, not known for playing by anyone’s set of rules but his own, had made similar trips into

Necroman. King Shalu had taken exception to the Tribunal’s edicts that he return to Serenia to give

account for his actions. He had not wanted to come, believing he had done nothing wrong in retaliating

for Prince Dyllon’s marauding. After all, the youngest Serenian prince had started the whole thing years

earlier by making sorties into Necroman to take back more-than-willing daughters from the many tribes

along the border, and farm animals that wandered just a little too close to Serenian lariats. When he was

found and taken, his wife and children held in Zephyrus Keep to insure his good behavior, Taborn had

fought hard to escape. His big fists had lashed out with enough power to stun his opponents and make

them literally see stars. It wasn’t until he was threatened with his family’s permanent incarceration at

Zephyrus that he subsided, giving in only to the memory of how badly his family hated being kept inside

stone buildings.

Riding into the keep’s corral—his hands bound before him with heavy hemp, not only looped around his

pommel, but crossed under his steed’s belly—his ankles tied together to keep him from attempting to

dismount, the Necroman sat proudly.

He disdainfully ignored the looks sent his way by servant, soldier, and merchant alike. His head never

turned to look at the small crowd gathering in the pouring, lashing rain. There were few in the keep who

had actually seen a Necroman up close, and their curiosity made it possible for them to ignore the flashes

of lightning and chilly rain. With his yellow-brown coloring and snow-white hair gleaming in long waves

around his wide face, he was an awesome spectacle of savage, brute strength. His massive shoulders and

hulking body were straight in the saddle; his sherry-colored brown eyes reviewed the keep with an air of

insolence. Large lips puckered with distaste as he glanced at the stables where Legion and Teal’s horses

were being led. He made a rude snort of contempt for the condition of the corral beyond.

"Is that supposed to mean our corrals aren’t as good as yours?" Thom caught Legion’s sharp look and

stopped, his rubbery mouth pursing into a hard line.

Shalu swept his eyes over the tall Captain of the Elite, flicked down the lumbering body with its huge

hands and big feet, lifted to the enraged face with its small black eyes and large lips, its bald head

shadowed with black stubble, and smirked.

Conar came angrily out of the keep, his feet skipping down the score of steps. He glanced at the men,

unconcerned with their return, and then away, pulling on his glove as he stomped across the covered

walkway to the stables. But then his head snapped up almost immediately and he came to a halt, turning

to stare at the big man who sat tied to his huge roan.

The Necroman swiveled his head toward the keep, saw the young man staring, and growled.

Conar knew the darkman was assessing him, finding him lacking. For some reason he couldn’t explain,

the Necroman’s disdain deeply hurt him. He pulled on his other glove and began to walk toward the

man, leaving the protection of the covered walkway and venturing into the rain. He was oblivious to the

pouring onslaught which had him soaked in seconds, his blond hair drooping over his high forehead, the

wet strands dripping into his eyes. Although he had never met the man, nor seen him, he knew by the

royal bearing and proudly erect head that the black man atop the prancing destrier had to be none other

than the rebellious King Of Necroman. He walked to the man’s mount and looked up at him with keen

interest.

Shalu raised his chin and glared at the man who had the ill-manners to gawk boorishly. Were these

barbarians taught no manners? Had they no mothers to see to their training? Or did they spring from the

bellies of jackals, as he had often heard tell? This one seemed to be a bit addled. The only thing

remarkable about this white man was the strange look on his face.

"Shalu," the boy whispered.

Something tugged at Shalu’s sixth sense. He realized just who this blond man must be. His gaze held

Conar’s with an intensity that went beyond curiosity. A charge of energy seemed to be flowing, passing

between the two men. It was as though something in the air snapped between them and they had, in that

moment, a perfect, automatic understanding of each another.

Conar looked at the darkman’s hands resting on the pommel. An intense look of pain crossed his face,

and with an angry curse, he withdrew his dagger from behind his back and severed the hemp. Even as

the dagger was unsheathed and jabbed toward him, Shalu didn’t bat an eye. Watching the prince

resheathe the wicked-looking serrated weapon, the Necromanian King turned to Legion with an

ill-concealed look of contempt before regarding Conar once more. No word of thanks came from the

thick lips—this man had never used such drivel in his entire life—but his head was no longer quite so

erect, the sullen lips not quite so tight.

"Why was that necessary?" Conar snarled at Teal.

"I suppose you would have asked him to come along and he would have?" Legion snapped.

Conar’s attention stayed on Shalu. "I wouldn’t have treated him like this. No man should be treated so."

A slight inclination of the darkman’s head let Conar know he agreed.

Conar glanced at Legion. "I’m leaving for Ciona."

Legion shrugged indifferently. "Do you think I care?"

Shalu listened to the interchange and wondered what caused the animosity. They were kinsmen, that

much he knew, but to watch them glaring at one another, one would have thought them the fiercest of

enemies.

"Aye, I think I can handle things for Papa while you’re gone. Probably better than you could anyway!"

"Get bent." Conar stalked off, not looking back.

Legion snapped out orders to Thom and Storm, then stomped away. Shalu swung his head from one

brother to the other, then snorted with disgust. Neither was happy and both seemed to be one step away

from a physical confrontation. Barbarians, he thought, who settled differences with their fists! A disgrace!

Once inside the keep, Legion took a fleece towel from one of the serving girls and dried his hair and

beard. He smiled at the coquettish look she gave him as she looked over his wet shirt where thick

muscles made the damp material cling to his hairy chest. "Miss me?"

"Lord Legion!" Hern called, beckoning the younger man with a crooked finger and stern visage.

"Later," Legion whispered to the girl and swatted her plump rear as she giggled.

Hern glanced at the purple knot on Legion’s jaw. "Give you a hard time, did he?"

Legion ignored the chuckle Hern sent his way. "Has Conar been in a better mood since I’ve been

gone?"

"I’d change the subject, too, if I had let some Necroman get the best of me." Hern winked. The

Master-At-Arms had been training royal sons and bastards since before Legion was born. He knew

exactly where to jab to hit nerve.

Legion glared. "He didn’t get the best of me, Arbra! I have him, don’t I?"

"Not before he got you first?" Hern laughed.

Legion ground his teeth. "Why is Conar going to Ciona on a day like today?"

Hern shrugged. "Your Papa wanted the brat out of the keep. The way he’s been acting, it’ll be nice to

have him from under foot."

"Has he been that bad?"

"Bad enough."

* * *

saddle, adjusting the protection of his oilcloth slicker, and glanced at the Tribunal Hall. He shivered, not